He sent the sleepy servant to rest, and paced anxiously to and fro for a short time; then he pushed Ulrich's portrait of Sophonisba nearer the mantel-piece, where countless candles were burning in lofty sconces.
This was his friend, and yet it was not.

The thing lacking--yes, the king was right--was incomprehensible to a boy.
We cannot represent, what we are unable to feel.

Yet Philip's censure had been too severe.

With a few strokes of the brush Moor expected to make this picture a soul mirror of the beloved girl, from whom it was hard, unspeakably hard for him to part.
"More than fifty!" he thought, a melancholy smile hovering around his mouth.--"More than fifty, an old husband and father, and yet--yet--good nourishing bread at home--God bless it, Heaven preserve it! It only this girl were my daughter! How long the human heart retains its functional power! Perhaps love is the pith of life--when it dries, the tree withers too!" Still absorbed in thought, Moor had seized his palette, and at intervals added a few short, almost imperceptible strokes to the mouth, eyes, and delicate nostrils of the portrait, before which he sat--but these few strokes lent charm and intellectual expression to his pupil's work.
When he at last rose and looked at what he had done, he could not help smiling, and asking himself how it was possible to imitate, with such trivial materials, the noblest possessions of man: mind and soul.

Both now spoke to the spectator from these features.